


the whole world, it is sleeping (but my world is you)

by a_static_world



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Banter, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff, Frenemies Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, Frenemies to Lovers ;), Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Insomnia, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Pet Names, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Top Notch Bants Here, Twilight References, bucky steals sam's clothes unapologetically, they're both bitches and i love them so much, tw Toledo Ohio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: It’s three in the morning, and Bucky Barnes can’t sleep.This isn’t unusual; he hasn’t had what doctors call “natural sleep cycles” in, well, eighty-odd years. Decades and decades of night missions and coming off the ice just to go back in and amphetamines pumped through your veins at any given moment will do that to a guy, he figures.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 180





	the whole world, it is sleeping (but my world is you)

It’s three in the morning, and Bucky Barnes can’t sleep. 

This isn’t unusual; he hasn’t had what doctors call “natural sleep cycles” in, well, eighty-odd years. Decades and decades of night missions and coming off the ice just to go back in and amphetamines pumped through your veins at any given moment will do that to a guy, he figures. And now it’s not exactly like he can sleep through the day and stay awake all night, though sometimes he caves, Sam laughing at him for being a vampire.  _ You’re pale, and your skin is ice cold _ , he’ll tease.  _ I know what you are,  _ and then Bucky’ll snark back like clockwork, asking Sam if that makes him the were-bird in this scenario. Which usually sparks a discussion (read: well researched debate) on the semantics of  _ Twilight _ , on the validity of Jacob vs Edward, and on and on until they’ve talked themselves in circles. Bucky shakes his head, shoving thoughts of teenybop romance out of his mind and rolling onto his side to check the time. 

_ 3:06 AM.  _

He sighs. There's no  _ real  _ way to get rid of the insomnia, unfortunately. Usually he just...waits it out, lays awake until his body gives in. Sometimes he gives up and rouses himself, starting his day at midnight. Melatonin and Nyquil won’t touch it, won’t make him anything more than sleep-queasy or loopy. One time, he’d been so desperate to sleep that he chugged an entire bottle of Nyquil, figuring that the serum in his system must burn it off faster than it could take effect. He’d been...partially right. The Nyquil knocked him flat, not asleep but in something akin to a delirious unconscious-conscious fugue state, in which he somehow managed to book (and board) a flight to  _ Toledo _ , of all places. Sam’d come for extraction, and he’d laughed at him the entire flight back to Brooklyn, calming down before muttering “ _ Ohio-”  _ and setting himself off again. So no, Nyquil won’t be making an appearance anytime soon. Bucky supposes he could call someone, Sam or Sharon, but he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to wake Sharon, and Sam would probably pointedly flush his calls. Steve’s probably awake, but christ, Bucky wants nothing less than to spend an hour and a half on the phone with a senior citizen who left him for dust as soon as he was sure Bucky wasn’t going to glitch out and kill someone.

Bucky chooses to give up, sliding his body out of bed and hissing as his bare feet press against the cold floor. Pepper offered him a room in the compound, and while he had graciously denied at the time, it’s cold-ass nights like these that make him wish he hadn’t. The compound has  _ heated floors _ , and Bucky grits his teeth as he hops around, trying to find socks and a pair of pants that aren’t skinny jeans or leggings. 

Eventually he pulls on some knit socks, lumpy things he’d made during his time in Wakanda. Shuri had urged him to find a tactile hobby, both to calibrate his new arm and as a grounding technique. He’d picked up wool-spinning and knitting from one of the women in the village, and proceeded to shower the residents with his horrifically ugly, far-too-warm-for-Wakanda knit goods. He’d brought home a suitcase of homespun yarn, which still sat in his closet. He finds pants, too, an old pair of grey sweats that may or may not have once belonged to Sam. They’ve spent a lot of time together, both in the soul stone and out of it, and at some point Bucky’s clothes and Sam’s clothes became  _ SamandBucky _ ’s clothes. There’s a blue henley Bucky’s dead sure Sam has, no matter how often he denies it.

It’s still freezing fucking cold in his apartment, so Bucky tumbles back into bed, wriggling his toes in the residual heat still trapped between the blankets. He sighs again, staring up at the ceiling. He’d memorized the cracks during his first insomnia attack in this apartment, spreading out spider-thin from around the light fixture. His instincts told him it wasn’t in any danger of falling, so he left it be, but he still eyes it warily whenever he’s under it. His brand-new, incredibly sexy arm doesn't need maintenance, either; he can fix it with a few taps to an app on his phone.  _ Just fucking text Sam _ , his mind says.  _ He’ll ignore you if he doesn’t want to talk.  _ And, well, who is Bucky to argue with logic? He rolls over, fishing down the side of his bed for his phone. He recoils as the screen flares bright in his eyes, swipes around until it’s at a level that  _ won’t _ boil his corneas out of his head. It’s not hard to find Sam’s contact, though he does have to scroll a bit. The last message is from Sam -  _ Birdbrain _ , in his phone - asking about meeting at the Thai place. It’s from Wednesday, though they’d gotten Ethiopian and not Thai at Bucky’s insistence. He sends a silent thank-you prayer to Shuri for making his arm touchscreen-compatible; Bucky’s had enough of one-thumbed typing to last a lifetime.

_ hey, wings. you up? _

He's just swiping over to some inane crossword game when Sam responds. 

**_No._ **

_ cool. i can’t sleep. :( _

**_Who cares._ **

Bucky rolls his eyes. He clearly hasn’t woken Sam up, because that man sleeps like the dead, and something as pitiful as a text alarm couldn’t wake him if it tried. Plus, Sam sleeps with his social phone on “do not disturb”. 

_ :( _

_ don’t you care about me? _

It's risky, and bordering closer to needy than Bucky likes to be, but hey. He's awake in the middle of the goddamn night, and maybe the screen fatigue or arguing with Sam will get him to pass out. 

**_I always don’t care, Cryofreeze._ **

Bucky smiles. He'll let that one slide; no need to dignify Sam's tired snark with a response. He swipes back over to his crossword game, contenting himself with finding 5 down, five spaces, synonym for bird.  _ Avian _ fits. Bucky’s halfway through the puzzle when there’s a knock at his door. It’s not the insistent pounding or outright kicking-down that HYDRA or some other goon would be doing, but he quiets himself anyway, goes back to the messages app. Sends a text to Sam without looking. 

_ someone at my door.  _

Sam'll know what to do with that, if it turns out to be an exceptionally polite villain. 

**_It’s me, idiot._ **

**_Open up it’s fucking freezing out here._ **

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief, sliding out of bed and padding through his apartment to the front door. He checks at the peephole to make sure it’s Sam before unbolting the door and letting him in, because he’s not stupid. Sam wasn’t kidding; the rush of cold air that he brings in with him sets Bucky shivering again, reminding him that- 

“Not even a shirt, Barnes? And with a  _ guest _ , how scandalous.”

“Just be glad I have pants on,  _ guest _ .  _ Unannounced  _ guest, might I add, jesus. Almost gave me a heart attack.” 

Sam just levels him with a stare, and Bucky rolls his eyes, retreats back to his bedroom to find a shirt. Sam follows him, shucking off his coat and waving the bag of fast-food he brought. 

“Brooklyn's finest McNuggets, Buck, and fries that are  _ definitely _ cold by now, gross.”

Bucky emerges from his closet, sweatshirt donned, to see Sam sitting cross-legged on his bed, pulling fistfuls of sauces out of the grease-stained paper bag. 

“Jesus, sweetheart, did’ja buy out the whole damn McDonald’s? Do they have a single honey mustard left? Are we gonna have to get Pepper to pay reparations-“

Sam scowls, tossing a sriracha mayo at Bucky's head. He catches it, of course, and Sam's scowl deepens to the point that Bucky  _ has _ to laugh. 

“Not your sweetheart, that’s for  _ sure  _ my sweatshirt, and no, I just know how to sweet talk my way into some sauce.”

Bucky grins, opening his mouth to respond before Sam stops him, pointing a finger and gesturing to the boxes of nuggets.

“If you want any of these, I highly suggest you do not say what you’re about to say.” 

Bucky shuts up, raising his hands in mock surrender before climbing onto the bed next to Sam. Bucky on the right, Sam on the left, a mountain of nuggets and sauces between them. Sam pulls up Netflix as Bucky flicks open a box, moaning around his first mouthful of deep-fried not-chicken, matte fingers turning instantly shiny with grease. Sam checks him with an elbow, grimacing as Bucky continues to make obscene noises, chewing with his mouth open just for the extra irritation. 

“Sorry, Samuel, I simply can’t help it. They put crack in these things, they’ve gotta.” 

“Okay, well, just for that, we’re watching  _ this _ .”

He’s pulled up  _ The Exorcist _ , and Bucky shudders. He’s lived through multiple wars, been an assassin for over seventy years, and seen things more horrific than any human person should. But those were all  _ people _ ; people committing atrocities and hurting one another and flailing in their greed. Ghosts? Bucky doesn’t fuck with ghosts, or demons, or paranormal whatever. You can put a bad person out of commission; you can’t do the same once they’re dead. Sam starts the movie, chuckling at Bucky’s expression and passing him a box of nuggets. 

The movie is, predictably, a fucking nightmare. Bucky gasps and flinches and clutches at Sam’s arm more times than he’d like to admit, muttering under his breath like the people on the screen can hear him. Sam laughs when he does, pats his hand where it’s gripping his arm, offers teasing condolences whenever Bucky flinches. Eventually, it’s over, and Bucky somehow feels  _ exhausted. _ Adrenaline comedown, probably, combined with around thirty McDonalds nuggets sitting heavy in his stomach. He pivots, flopping down into Sam’s lap and covering his face with a hand.

“Okay, you might not owe that McDonald's reparations, but you  _ do _ owe me some for emotional damages, christ.”

Sam chuckles, shoving empty boxes and sauces back into the takeout bags, wiggling them out from under Bucky’s back with ease.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a baby, Barnes.”

“Not a baby, sweetheart,” Bucky mutters, turning so that his head is buried in Sam’s stomach. They’re no strangers to physical affection, and Bucky trusts him, and when he gets tired he gets clingy. Sue him.

“Not your sweetheart, baby.”

Bucky knows Sam’s getting ready to leave, can feel it in the way the atmosphere of the room shifts. He doesn’t want Sam to go, though, because he has the terrible feeling that if he does, the sleepy feeling will leave with him. So he fists a hand in Sam’s shirt, mumbling into his stomach.

“What was that, cryofreeze?”

“Stay?”

Bucky turns his head to gaze up at Sam, letting his tired puppy-dog eyes do the rest of the talking. Sam softens, scratches a hand through Bucky’s hair, which holy  _ fuck _ does that feel good, he’s gonna have to call Sam up more often, damn.

“Sure thing. Lemme throw this stuff away and stretch, first.”

Bucky nods, sits up so that Sam can escape. He hears the takeout get disposed of, along with the popping of Sam’s back and knees amidst a quiet slew of curses. Bucky toes off his socks (he’s not a  _ monster _ ) and slides under the covers, wriggling around until he’s semi-cocooned, peering out of the nest at Sam when he re-enters the room. Sam only laughs, shakes his head, and wrestles enough of the blankets from Bucky that they’re both neatly covered.

Here’s the thing: when two men are sitting on a Queen-size bed, there feels like an ample amount of room. When two men are  _ lying _ in a Queen-size bed, that room quickly disappears, especially if said men are both superheroes built like brick shit-houses. There’s a lot of shifting, adjusting so that Bucky’s knees aren’t in Sam’s kidneys, and making sure their arms have somewhere neutral to go. They end up quasi-spooning, Sam’s back tucked close to Bucky’s chest, their legs both bent the same way. Bucky falls asleep to the smell of Sam’s conditioner and the steady sound of his breathing.

Their careful positioning doesn’t last the night. Bucky wakes up at noon the next day -  _ the same day? _ \- lying on top of Sam. His head is pillowed on the other man’s chest, rising and falling with his breathing, and Bucky can hear his heartbeat. Sam’s wrapped an arm around his back, the dead weight all but pinning him in place. 

(Lies, he could move if he wanted to. But he’s selfish, and doesn’t want to.)

(It’s the best sleep he’s had in months.)

He falls back asleep, miraculously, and wakes again when Sam stirs, rubbing a hand up and down his back. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” Bucky says, shifting even more of his weight onto Sam so that he’s immobilized, breathing heavy on the  _ -heart _ so that his morning breath goes right into Sam’s face.

Bucky’s expecting a lot of things. He’s expecting Sam to grimace, pull away, flip Bucky off him, crack a joke about old-man-mouth.

What he doesn’t expect is for Sam to crane his neck up and kiss him, mouth soft and sleep-warm and chapped. Bucky finds himself kissing back with enthusiasm, sleepy enough that the shock running through his body feels less like a horse-fence and more like static electricity.

“Morning, baby. Sleep good?” 

Sam’s eyes do the crinkly thing, the thing that happens when he’s happy, and Bucky has no choice but to kiss him again, sleepy and sloppy and smiling so goddamn big that it’s more of a mess than a kiss.

Sam kisses him back before pulling away, wrinkling his nose. Bucky rolls his eyes, flops off of Sam before the quip comes.

“Damn, grandpa, forget to wash your dentures again?”

Bucky groans. But Sam is still there, warm under his fingertips, and, well. He figures that at this point, it’ll take a lot more than morning breath to scare him off.

**Author's Note:**

> another sambucky because i am shameless and the mere thought of tfatws fills me with so much joy i can't breathe aka im back on my marvel brainrot bullshit  
> (be thankful i'm not posting my destiel brainrot:) )  
> also yes bucky has autocaps turned off (he's gay) and sam types like your dad (he's sexy)  
> but!! i love them!! i love that they're snarky assholes in love!!! i hope you all have someone you love in your lives!!  
> wear a mask, stay safe, hydrate, take care of yourselves, as always. come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) for increasing amounts of sam wilson love and screaming about the witcher or if you just need a chat!  
> xoxo static


End file.
